Life is made for a thirteen-year old girl.

All that is strange and entertains us in this world

Is made for her, from the carefully painted toes

To the old, comedy television shows

Produced by fashionable drunks and their wives

Who make adult situations out of the situations in their lives

Which recall an earlier day and an earlier age

When the playful was more important than the sage,

And history, the wreck we carry on our backs

Needs to be forgotten, so every adult can just relax.

No longer attached to mom and dad,

Too much time ahead, too proud to be boring or sad:

Everyone wants, in their hearts, to be thirteen,

No compromise, nothing in-between,

Too young to be nostalgic, too young to be wise,

And old enough that one burning smirk sits like all the world in her eyes.





1 Comment

  1. noochinator said,

    December 20, 2017 at 4:34 pm

    To My Daughter

    Seventy-seven betrayers will stand by the road,
    And those who love you will be few but stronger.

    Seventy-seven betrayers, skilful and various,
    But do not fear them: they are unimportant.

    You must learn soon, soon, that despite Judas
    The great betrayals are impersonal

    (Though many would be Judas, having the will
    And the capacity, but few the courage).

    You must learn soon, soon, that even love
    Can be no shield against the abstract demons:

    Time, cold and fire, and the law of pain,
    The law of things falling, and the law of forgetting.

    The messengers, of faces and names known
    Or of forms familiar, are innocent.

    Hyam Plutzik

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